movement of blood
by slinkhard
Summary: Cory/Shawn pre-slash, set in S4.1 'You Can Go Home Again'.


**title:** movement of blood  
**author:** slinkhard  
**age restrictions:** I dunno, r?  
**pairing:** Cory/Shawn  
**notes:** First fic I've written in like, forever, and first ever BMW one. Feedback would be lovely, even if it's con-crit.  
The title I took from a S2 episode, the fic itself is set around S4.1 'You Can Go Home Again'.

When Shawn jerks off, he tries to do it at Cory's house.

He's a teenage boy after all, and one with not many options – between a trailer approximately, like, a foot wide, accompanied by a soundtrack of Chet's heavy snores, lights from the trucks on the highway shining in his window, and the bed on cheap metal struts that shakes and creaks every time he so much as breathes deeply; the outdoor john where he can carry his purloined playboys past the watchful eyes of Mr Unter and Herbert; or Turner's, when he was crashing there.

Shawn doesn't embarrass easily, but the guy's already done enough for him.  
Drowning his stereo and getting caught sneaking in (The) Veronica Watson are workable, getting caught jacking it by your English teacher on his spare pull out couch would be humiliating even for him.

But Cory's place, or at least his room, is more home than anywhere else these days.  
He knows the exact spot in Eric's drawer where he keeps his Sports Illustrateds; that Mr Matthews will take his dates home while they make out in the backseat; he can unblushingly tell Cor when he's used up all the cold water and is still so hard it aches ten minutes later (the pitfalls of being fifteen), or when making out with a chick has lead to a boner in the middle of Chubbies.

Sex has never been that big a deal to Shawn, unlike Cor, who nervously checks with him at every stage, asking stuff Shawn's never even thought of – how do I know how to use my tongue, what happens if I jerk off too much, when do you think Topanga will let me feel under her bra; one time a couple of years ago even awkwardly asking if he was doing it right, while Shawn patiently showed him, sharing the tips he's learnt on his own, and from various girls – 'No, Cor, you want to roll, not rub…yeah, like that.'

He wonders, half affectionately and half with genuine curiosity whether his friend will ever catch up, if he even feels arousal as strongly, feels sometimes like he'll explode if he doesn't come right that second.

But while he's shameless about what he tells Cor, he has to remind himself not to be around his family, who tend to get weirded out easily and make pointed comments, and who already worry about the influence he has over their precious son.

For that matter, he has to watch it around his own dad, who maybe as a consequence of having skipped, oh, the last year and a half of his life is still under the impression 'Shawnie' needs the facts of life explained. They're barely able to discuss feelings yet, he's not wild on having his dad overhear him masturbating and enduring an awkward talk – the ones about Mom are bad enough.

But as a consequence, it's been two months on the road, without either Cor or his favourite hobby, and to be frank, he's missed both like crazy, much needed family bonding aside.

Topanga insists on tagging along as usual, even though she must know Cory will only have eyes for Shawn, what with the amount they have to catch up on - this is the longest time they've been apart since Cory went to camp over summer break sixth grade.  
(Another thing Shawn couldn't afford to do, and Cory spent so long wavering about this that he ended up signed up for fat camp and came home after a week.)

But she serenely corrects him in that irritating way she has:  
'Sure, he'll want to talk to you, but he hasn't kissed me in two months.'  
It's gotta be the first and last time in the history of the world that someone sees Shawn Hunter the trailer trash as the person to have deep conversations with, and Topanga Lawrence the straight A student the one to mindlessly make out with; but Cor's always marched to the beat of his own drummer, he supposes.

He figures he might as well get ready, relaxed for Cory's welcome home, especially with the seepage issue at the park and the general low quality of truck stop bathrooms this summer.

Without thinking, he crunches a whole handful of mints, to stop Cor nagging him about how often he's brushed his teeth on the road; and heads for the bathroom.

He shaves, washes, even combs his hair out of his eyes, not in his face the way Cory hates it.

Then, it having been two months after all, he jerks off, leisurely at first, then surprisingly fevered – sure, it's been a while, but he's Shawn Hunter, after all, getting this desperate and horny without even a chick around is so lame – furiously, over and over, every time thinking he's finally done, exhausted; then hot and hard again, hips rocking, thighs clenching, panting, even moaning aloud at one point, relieved the Matthews are still out, especially since he's not sure he could have kept quiet even if they were home.

They sure won't be pleased about the state of the bathroom, water splashed all over the floor, stubble around the sink, the bath surrounded by a ring of dirt, and probably a layer of skin, he feels so raw.

He's certainly set a personal best, if not the world record (if they keep such things), so much so that afterwards, even hours on, his cock is too sensitive for boxers, let alone pants, and he walks the short distance home in Mr. M's dressing gown, still too dazed for embarrassment.


End file.
